Indians.
The Wild West was settling down, slowly but surely.
Bands of outlaws and brigands still roamed the West, though, robbing banks and rustling cattle.
In the northern part of New Mexico it was the gangs of Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen that were causing most of the trouble. Frank Morgan knew both men, and they hated him. Both had been known to go into wild outbursts of anger at just the mention of his name.
Frank had, at separate times, backed each of the outlaw leaders down and made them eat crow in front of witnesses. They both were gutsy men, but they weren't stupid. Neither one was about to draw on Frank Morgan.
There were several names in the West that caused brave men to sit down and shut up. Smoke Jensen, Falcon MacCallister, Louis Longmont, and Frank Morgan were the top four still living.
Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen had started their careers in crime when just young boys, and both had turned into vicious killers. Their gangs numbered about twenty men each -- more from time to time, less at others -- and they were not hesitant to tackle entire small towns in their wild and so far unstoppable pursuit of money and women ... in that order.
* * * *
Frank Morgan's life as a gunfighter had begun when he was in his midteen years and working as a hand on a ranch in Texas. One of the punchers had made Frank's life miserable for several months by bullying him whenever he got the chance ... which was often. One day Frank got enough of the cowboy's crap and hit him flush in the face with a piece of a broken singletree. When the puncher was able to see again and the swelling in his nose had gone down some, he swore to kill the boy. Young Frank Morgan, however, had other plans.
The puncher told Frank to get a gun 'cause the next time he saw him he was going to send him to his Maker.
Frank had an old piece of a pistol that he'd been practicing with when he got the money to buy ammunition. It was 1860, and times were hard, money scarce.
That day almost thirty years back was still vivid in Frank's mind.
He was so scared he had puked up his breakfast of grits and coffee.
Then he stepped out of the bunkhouse to meet his challenger, pistol in hand.
There was no fast draw involved in that duel. That would come a few years later.
The cowboy cursed at Frank and fired just as Frank stepped out of the bunkhouse, the bullet howling past Frank's head and knocking out a good-size splinter of wood from the rough doorframe. Frank damn near peed his underwear.
Young Frank acted out of pure instinct. Before the abusive puncher could fire again, Frank had lifted and cocked his pistol. He shot the puncher in the center of his chest. The man stumbled back as the .36-caliber chunk of lead tore into his flesh.
'You piece of turd!' the cowboy gasped, still on his boots. He lifted and cocked his pistol.
Frank shot him again, this time in the face, right between the eyes.
The puncher hit the hard ground, dead.
Frank walked over him and looked down at the dead man. The open empty eyes stared back at him. He struggled to fight back sickness, and managed to beat it. Frank turned away from the dead staring eyes.
'Luther had kin, boy,' the foreman told him. 'They'll be comin' to avenge him. You best get yourself set for that day. Make some plans.'
'But I didn't start this!' Frank said. '_He_ did.' Frank pointed to the dead man.
'That don't make no difference, boy. I'll see you get your time, and a little extra.'
'Am I leavin'?' Frank asked.
'If you want to stay alive, son. I know Luther had four brothers, and they're bad ones. They will come lookin' for you.'
'They live close?'
'About a day's ride from here. And they got to be notified. So, you get your gear rolled up, son, and get ready to ride. I'll go see the boss.'
'I'm right here,' said the owner of the spread. 'I was having my mornin' time in the privy.' He paused for a moment and looked down at Luther. 'Well, he was a good hand, but deep down just like his worthless brothers -- no damn good.' He looked at Frank. 'You kill him, boy?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Luther ain't gonna be missed by many. Only his sorry-assed brothers, I reckon. You got to go, boy. Sorry, but that's the way it has to be. For your sake. You get your personals together and then come over to the house. You got time comin', and I'll see you get some extra.'
'I ain't even got a horse to call my own, Mr. Phillips,' Frank said. 'Or a saddle.'
'You will,' the rancher told him. 'Get movin', son. I'll see you in a little while.'
Frank rode out an hour later. He had his month's wages -- twelve dollars -- and twenty dollars extra Mr. Phillips gave him. He still had twenty-five dollars he'd saved over his time at the ranch, too. Frank felt like he was sort of rich. He had a sack of food Mrs. Phillips had fixed for him. He was well-mounted, for the foreman had picked him out a fine horse and a good saddle and saddlebags.
The other hands had gathered around to wish him farewell.
